Carnival continued
by LittleBritainFanatic
Summary: Richie and Eddie survived their SAS attack - but are now fighting for their lives in hospital. Will they recover, and, if they do, what will life be like for the two wanted criminals?


_Richie picks up the phone again as the SAS rings them yet again. He's absolutely terrified, but does his best to hide it, speaking sarcastically into the mouthpiece, "Yes, hello, The colander." He gestures to the bullet holes in their wall despite the fact only Eddie can see him. After listening for a few seconds, he replies, "Yes, we got your hint." Turninng to Eddie, Richie says, "Eddie, throw down the video." His heart is pounding, but this option allows the smallest wave of relief to flow through his tense body._

_"Right you are." Eddie says, before picking up the VCR and throwing it straight through the window, shattering the glass. He doesn't look at Richie, but, if he did, he would have seen his flat mate sigh in exasperation. "What does he say?"_

_Putting the phone to his ear again, Richie listens, before announcing exactly what the man just cried, "He says... 'Ow! Go A squad!'"_

_"Go A squad?" Eddie repeats, confused._

_Suddenly understanding what's going on, Richie screams, "GO A SQUAD!"_

_Four members of the SAS suddenly burst into the room through the windows, door and ceiling. They line up, machine guns pointed at Richie and Eddie, both of them looking ready to vomit with fear._

_ "OH SHIT!" They both yell._

_The SAS fire on them, bullets slamming straight into their chests, blood spurting everywhere, before Richie and Eddie both collapse onto their blood soaked carpet..._

* * *

I trudge down the corridor on the way to my lunch break, glad to be leaving my shift for an hour, even if I'm only going to the canteen. Today's shift is particularly tiring, because I don't only have to work in intensive care, but also spend time in Accident and emergency, which I'm dreading. It's just so busy, and hectic, and I can't bear it when people die on me.

"Sophie!" I spin around at the sound of my name, and see Doctor Edwards rushing towards me. "We've got to go down to A and E right now!" He's caught up with me now, so we both hurry along the corridor together.

This is typical! It's my break, and now I've been called down to A and E! "Why me?" I ask, stepping into the lift just after the Doctor. We have to shove right up against the wall to make room for a wheeled bed, but we can't afford to wait for the lift to return, so we put up with it.

"We've got two critical patients coming in, and, as we're short-staffed, they had to call on us - I know, I was on my break too." Doctor Edwards explains, raising his eyebrows at me. "It was either you or Nurse Hope, but she's specialised in pediatrics, and our patients are adults, so she's not much use."

"It's fine." I say dismissively. We've reached the ground floor, so, after waiting for the bed to be wheeled out, we both leave the lift.

After a few more minutes, we've reached Accident and Emergency, and we both go and hastily scrub up. Pulling a plastic apron and a pair of disposable gloves on, I head back into the department, meeting up with Doctor Edwards, who looks equally ridiculous. Another doctor and Nurse Wright, my friend, are also with him, the nurse noting down information from the paramedic at the other end of the phone. When the paramedic hangs up, she turns to us, and gives us the brief:

"We've got two men coming in: Richard Richard, aged 37, and Edward Hitler, aged 38. They were shot down by the SAS for suspected terrorism, so are both unconscious, and bleeding heavily. They'll need to go into surgery immediately." The two doctors nod, and head down to the operating theatres.

"They were shot?" I repeat uncertainly, wondering how anyone could shoot anyone else, regardless of their crime.

"Yeah, I know." Nurse Wright says, silently agreeing with me. "But the policeman I spoke to said they're high security, and, if they do, by some miracle, wake up, we can't speak to them without a police officer being there with us." She sighs lightly, before snapping into action as the automatic doors suddenly open.

I follow her. I soon find myself surrounded by police officers and paramedics, who, despite knowing who their patients are, are still attempting to stem the bleeding. Taking one of the beds from a female paramedic, I wheel the unconscious man down the corridor, once again following after Nurse Wright, who's pushing the other bed along, a policewoman walking beside her. Quickly glancing up, I see a policeman beside me, and look down again, feeling, for some unknown reason, intimidated. Instead, I stare at my patient, wondering how anyone could have injured him so badly.

His collar length hair is clumped together with congealed blood, which is obviously coming from the deep cut on his forehead , and his whole, bare chest is littered with bloody bullet holes, barely leaving space for the electrodes leading to the ECG resting on his groin. He looks rather peaceful whilst unconscious, and I can hardly believe that someone who looks so harmless could really be a terrorist. But does it really matter? He's still half dead, regardless of what has happened to him in his life.

Wheeling the patient into the operating theatre, I help the doctor haul him onto the operating table, being extremely careful not to twist his back which, judging by the state of the bed, is also bleeding. But that means a bullet has gone right through his body - it's going to be almost impossible to save him. Turning around, I see the policeman behind me, and try to ask him to leave the room. He does, albeit reluctantly, but insists on watching us on the closed circuit television.

It takes hours, but eventually, with blood up to his elbows, Doctor Edwards manages to remove every bullet, and stitch up every bullet wound, leaving the man covered in stitches. By now, I've learned that he's called Richard, and, according to the policeman, he was the ringleader in their terrorism attempt. But I still didn't care, and simply wheeled Mr Richard to the room he will be sharing with his friend, who is already there, looking just as bad as Mr Richard.

I hook Mr Richard, who still has an oxygen mask strapped to his blood stained face, up to his life support machine, having to go without the ECG now his whole chest is covered in bandages. After checking Mr Hitler's life signs, I leave the room, watching over my shoulder as the police officers pull up a chair each and sit in the doorway, watching the two patients as if they might suddenly jump up and try to escape. Sighing, I head off down the corridor once again to hopefully have my break this time, wondering what has happened to the British justice system if they think that almost killing your suspects is a productive, or just, thing to do...


End file.
